Face of Adversity
by Foofmeister
Summary: On September 11th, Alfred Jones was just one of many who were called upon to be a hero. When he selflessly entered the burning building that day, he never imagined HE would be the one being saved; especially by Arthur Kirkland, an ordinary office worker who was stuck on the 76th floor of the World Trade Center…USUK


**TwoShot! (possibly a Threeshot! if I can be bothered to write more lol)**

**Okay, real quick—this is a 9/11 fic that I managed to finally type out. I know I'm like a few days late, but I just HAD to post it. Why? Not only in honor of that day, but to also celebrate the fact that I have officially been shipping USUK for a whole YEAR! (I know, all you other shippers who have been shipping it since the beginning of time are like "Pshh! Check this loser out…" but this is seriously a big deal for me!)**

**This time last year, I read my first Hetalia fanfic "When Freedom and Bravery Fail" (I totally forgot the name of the author and now I can't find it at all?…sad!) and it cemented my love for USUK. So, although I doubt the author is reading this, I still want to give them a shout out! You changed my life.**

**I'll let you get on with it then! Notes are at the end so you don't have to listen to my rambling first-thing. **

**I don't own Hetalia! I am in no way, shape, or form making any money off this…tragically.**

**Also, this is unbeta'd, so ignore all failures on my part!**

* * *

Arthur Kirkland never gave much thought to how he would die.

Briefly, he imagined it would be rather boring, like passing in his sleep just as dully and detached as he had passed through his mundane life. Or perhaps it would be a little more thrilling but no less unusual, such as a horrible car crash on the freeway. Given the poor standards for acquiring a driver's license in this country, he supposed the latter was the more likely of the two…

Either way, Arthur left it at that and didn't dwell on the topic any more.

However, never in a thousand years he would have believed to find himself in such a situation—losing his life like _this_… in such a terrifying and awful way.

It felt like a nightmare, which he thought was strange because he had never had a nightmare before; not a single one as a child, and especially not as an adult. His dreams were always harmless and easily forgotten by daylight's break over the horizon.

But surely this _had_ to be a nightmare. It just had to be… because if it wasn't a dream, then it was the alternative, and that realistic concept was horrific to grasp at the moment.

His breath was caught tightly in his throat, his heart pounding rapidly and wild. Despite the heat, he was cold with sweat, just wishing he would w_ake_ _up; _for this horror to disappear in a tangle of soft sheets and comfy pillows and the call of his alarm on the bedside table…

Yet, the moment where he was should have woken up came and passed. Arthur, with a twist in his stomach, was forced to accept that _this was real._

He found himself huddled between an upturned desk that had once been his, and a broken filing cabinet that had been bent into an L-shape. Smoke was filtering into the room—not yet enough to choke on, but just the right consistency to make breathing a more difficult chore than it should be.

The inferno heat that accompanied the smoke was tremendous and stifling. There weren't any flames in sight yet, but it was only a short matter of time. He could f_eel_ the blazing tongues licking at the walls around him, fire spreading faster than lightning. This was not normal fire, and his fortress would not hold out much longer against it.

There was only a single fluorescent bulb intact, but it was flickering pathetically overhead, like a dying, twitching animal, casting an eerie hue over the carnage surrounding him: the room was devastated. It was as if the whole thing had been turned on its side and then back again—everything was in disarray: desks, filing cabinets, phones, chairs, bookshelves, computers…everything was turned over and strewn about. On the opposite side, the ceiling had partially collapsed, depositing a mound of heavy rubble and debris by the office door.

His only escape.

Arthur curled himself up a little tighter and was immediately rewarded with searing pain shooting through his right leg. With a choked gasp, he buried his head in his arms, propped on his good leg, and fought back wave of tears. Try as he might, he couldn't stop the steady flow. They bleed down his face and dropped to his lap.

_He was going to die today._

It was unsettling and regretful, but a fact. There would be no waking up tomorrow and going about his usual routine. No more making tea or taking hot showers or watching Doctor Who or reading Sherlock Holmes. No more documents to finish, or proposals to write, or meetings to attend.

All of it, his entire life, was going to end.

And what had he even done with his life? Nothing extraordinary, he bitterly admitted. He had always been content with living in the background, just getting along and passing through life day to day. Now, he wished he had just…_lived_ a little more. _That_ stung much more than the physical injuries he had received—the fact that he could have done _so much more, _could have been something _more_ than the passive shell he had become. Instead, he had coasted through life, with a vague and undefined sense of fulfillment, hung up on all the unimportant things and allowing them to control his life.

He had never been to the places he reallywanted to go. He had never done anything he really wanted to do. He had never fallen in love. He had never truly been happy...

And he never realized it until now, at the end of all things.

Arthur fisted his hands in his hair, pulling frustratingly at the soot-filled locks. His shoulders shook and more tears began to fall that didn't have anything to do with his leg this time.

_He didn't want to die. _

It was so childish and unbecoming to stubbornly cling onto life when he knew it was pointless. He briefly recalled that in the movies, moments like this was when characters would accept their death regally, with poise, and use their remaining moments to either reminisce their wonderful life or commit one more good deed.

Damn Hollywood. They had never portrayed anything as horrific as _this. _

If Arthur _could_, maybe he would try to do one last good thing before he went, but he was rendered immobile and his co-workers were already gone. Francis and Antonio, both of whom Arthur never particularly liked, were laying unnaturally still on the other side of the room from him, their bodies twisted awkwardly and eyes cold and unblinking.

Dead.

They were dead.

It seemed like _hours_ ago when they were alive. They were annoying, always scheming and doing half-assed work and being pointlessly loud, but they were his colleagues, his acquaintances. They may have never been close, but they all had a certain connection to each other due to their work. Arthur talked to them day in and day out, he had learned their habits and quirks, dealt with their insanity and immature tendencies, and although he routinely cursed them for making his life difficult, he would never have imagined that in a blink of an eye, they would be gone. It had only been _minuets_ ago.

They were dead.

And he was next.

Still knotted in his hair, his fists were clenching and unclenching fretfully. He was trying to stay calm, or strong, or something, but he couldn't deny the fact that he felt so terribly alone and hurt and scared. He was crying, shoulders shaking, gasping for air like a child, and he wanted to curse himself for being so weak, but at this moment, he couldn't possibly care how pitiful he looked.

Besides, it wasn't like anyone could hear him over the deafening sounds of destruction—roaring flames outside the door. Metal grinding, bending, and breaking. Windows shattering, loud crashes and explosions, screams of terror and hollers of pain…no one would notice one Arthur Kirkland, trapped in his little corner, amongst the thousands in jeopardy.

But suddenly, amid the noises, there was a strong, resolute pounding on the office door. Arthur looked up startled. The door had been barricaded behind the rubble of the ceiling. Arthur couldn't get out, so he doubted anyone could get in...

But they were persistent, whoever it was.

The pounding got louder and louder, with more ferocity and violence until the wooden door finally gave out, splintering under the force of a blood-red axe.

A team of firefighters ambushed the mountain of wreckage, successfully mowing it over like it was nothing more than pesky blades of grass. They didn't waste their time, and Arthur supposed with destruction this bad, they couldn't afford to. Still, it came as a surprise when they began to turn around the way they came, already leaving…

"Just leave it!" one of them called from under his mask. "They are all gone. We need to move on!"

They had seen Francis and Antonio, seen their lifeless eyes and already knew their fate. They did not, however, see Arthur across the room. It was probably because the room was hazy with smoke. When had it gotten so thick? Still, they were leaving, almost out of reach, and Arthur panicked. He opened his mouth to call, but inhaled a mouthful of smoke instead.

"W-wait!" he choked out to the retreating firefighters. The smoke burned a trail down his throat to his lungs. "S-stop!"

The last of the firefighters turned around. "Hold up, I heard something." Arthur could have cried with relief, if he wasn't already coughing his lungs out.

"C'mon Jones! We've got survivors over here!" one of the others called to him. But the lone firefighter had finally spotted Arthur, and without hesitation, he rushed over. He thrust an oxygen mask over Arthur's nose and mouth. Pure, clean air blasted through his lungs. It felt wondrous but almost too much to take. Arthur ripped his face away from the mask, and turned to cough some more into the crook of his elbow, his lungs tickling and screaming.

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe. He was going to choke—

The mask was shoved back onto his face and again he was forced to breathe the tantalizingly clean air.

"I know it's hard, but keep breathing."

The firefighter's voice was authoritative, but also calm and soothing. It demanded Arthur's attention, and he found himself following the firefighter's orders. With a nod of his head, he forced himself to take steady breaths, even though his reaction was to choke.

"Good…that's good." The rescuer praised. He was griping Arthur's shoulders, holding him upright to help breathe easier.

"What's your name?" the firefighter asked.

Arthur moved the oxygen mask away from his mouth. "A-Arthur," he wheezed in reply.

"Okay Arthur," the firefighter's voice took on a serious but friendly tone, determined and down-to-business. "My name is Alfred. I'm going to get you out of here."

He said it so pointedly, so factual that Arthur was inclined to believe him. But then he suddenly remembered _why _he had been expecting to die in the first place…

"It's no use," Arthur whispered, tears stinging his eyes. "I can't move…"

He gestured to his injured leg, and the firefighter—no _Alfred_—looked down.

"_Oh shit!" _Alfred immediately recoiled, and something in Arthur broke. He ducked his head into his hands, tears stinging his eyes once more. He knew that he was fucked. Even the firefighter knew he was a goner. It was hopeless. _He _was hopeless.

Alfred might as well leave him and move on to others that could still be saved. Why had he even called out to Alfred when he knew that he was a lost cause? In any other situation, they _might_ have been able to do something, but he was on the fucking seventy-sixth floor! The entire tower was burning around them; there was no way Alfred could get him down.

He wasn't exaggerating either—Arthur really wouldn't be able to move an inch with his leg. He had avoided looking at it, because the sight of the long twisted metal, the length of his own forearm, piercing straight through his knee was enough to make him vomit—he had already lost his breakfast by looking at it once before.

He was honestly surprised he hadn't passed out by now, considering he hated the sight of blood and gore. Although that would have made dying a hell of a lot easier if he was unconscious…

"Arthur. Look at me!"

Arthur was given a rough shake and his hands were pulled away so he could stare face-to-face with the firefighter. At some point, Alfred had pushed his mask up and Arthur was surprised to see a youthful, handsome man behind it. He had unbelievable blue eyes that were somehow shining bright, even in dim, smoky room. His face was flushed red and there was soot smudged over his cheeks. A few wisps of honey-colored hair fallen out from under the mask over his radiant eyes.

He looked like an angel.

"I'm not leaving you, alright?" Alfred stated defiantly, staring him down.

The large hands on his trembling shoulders squeezed slightly. Arthur was left reeling, unable to respond.

"I won't leave you. I'm getting you out of here, I _promise_."

Arthur had only just met him, but he could immediately tell that Alfred was not one to break his promises. He was touched by the firefighter's optimism yet he could not seem to level with it.

"H-how?" Arthur croaked, disbelieving.

Alfred held his gaze for a moment leaving Arthur nearly breathless. Then Alfred looked down and seemed to examine the wound. Arthur refused to look at it again, so instead he focused on Alfred's form in front of him.

"We need to get that piece of metal out first, okay?" the firefighter said after a moment, motioning to the unwanted object lodged in his knee.

Alfred leaned back a little and shed his bulky fire-resistant gloves. Underneath was revealed two large, hands, tinted a beautiful gold color. He pulled out a rag from somewhere and began tearing it into long strips. Arthur watched in mild fascination as he worked, somehow mesmerized by the movement of his lively hands. Despite all that was going on in the moment, Arthur spared a curious wonder about what the rest of Alfred looked like underneath all his gear…

"Okay, I'm going to pull this out. Are you ready?"

Arthur jerked back to attention and realized that Alfred had a steady hand on the shaft of metal, ready to pull it out.

Rampant fear erupted in his veins.

"No!" Arthur recoiled violently, panicking away from Alfred's touch. By doing so, he involuntarily jerked his knee; jolts of agonizing pain shot through the massacred joint. He would have screamed, except his mouth was already running all sorts of nonsense.

"Just leave it! Don't take it out! I don't want you to touch it," he rambled in a blind panic. He couldn't do it. Having it in there was bad enough, but taking it out while he was still conscious was unthinkable…

"Just leave it, please just leave it—"

"Arthur." Those strong hands gripped his shoulders again. He received another shake, though this time a little less rough. "Arthur, I know you are scared. I _know_..." Alfred was speaking to him, and the steady, calm cadence of his voice grabbed Arthur's focus. "But it's going to be okay. I won't let anything happen to you. I _will _get you out of here, alright?"

For some reason, Arthur felt his hesitation fade away. He believed in Alfred, _trusted _him. Not one person in his entire life ever commanded such trust from Arthur. It was a strange thing indeed that this fireman could take it so easily from him, when Arthur didn't know anything past his name.

"O-okay." Arthur whispered, with a nod of his head. He was uncertain and scared, but he unexpectedly trusted Alfred with all of his heart.

"Good." Alfred gave his shoulders another gentle squeeze before he turned back to Arthur's leg. "Now, close your eyes and try to relax. I'll make it quick."

Arthur obeyed, at least on the first bit. But his body refused to relax. Instead, it went into hyper alert; his leg was quivering and twitching with nervous anticipation. He felt Alfred put one of his hands on his trembling thigh right above the injured knee, gripping it warmly and so carefully. His other hand cautiously grabbed the jagged metal shaft, which felt strange and bizarre, because it was lodged within his knee and he could _feel_ Alfred's grip through his joint!

His knee twitched anxiously. _Breathe_, he told himself, eyes still closed. _Breathe_.

Suddenly, without any warning, Alfred ripped the metal out.

It came with a squelch and splatter of blood and Arthur was blinded by the electrifying pain. White-hot, burning like fire, and excruciating. He screamed, cursed, and pitched forward, grabbing hold of anything he could, which happened to be Alfred. He held him in a death-like clench and cried out.

Alfred let him cling onto him like a leech, already fast at work. He was bandaging the gushing wound with the strips of rags he had torn up before. It hurt like hell over and over, each time Alfred tied another strip and knotted it. The pain was agonizing and Arthur didn't know what else to do, so he buried his face into Alfred's shoulder and tried to reign in the tears as the firefighter worked. Thankfully he was quick and effective and done in no time.

The result was a crude makeshift bandage, and blood was already seeping through the layers of wrappings, but it would do for the time being. The pain had toned down, now that the foreign object was removed. Arthur was still clutching Alfred, too tired and spent to let go. The fireman didn't seem to mind though, and Arthur could have sworn he had even felt Alfred embrace him briefly.

"Alright Arthur, I know you're tired, but we need to get moving." Alfred's voice resonated somewhere above him, vibrating through his chest. Alfred was right of course; the tower was still on fire.

With tremendous effort, Arthur reluctantly picked his head up off of Alfred's shoulder. It was heavier than before and the room started to spin.

"Whoa—easy there." Alfred steadied him. He didn't know he had been swaying. "I'm going to carry you, alright?"

Arthur didn't even have the strength to protest. He gave a terse nod and Alfred wrapped his strong arms around him. He gently snaked one underneath his knees, and Arthur gasped when the injured knee was roused.

"It's okay—I got you. It's alright," Alfred said to him calmly, and Arthur believed it was, whenever Alfred said it so definitely like that. Before he knew it, he was lifted off the ground in a show of hidden strength. Alfred's arms were the only thing keeping him from falling. He grabbed at Alfred instinctively, but could only clutch fistfuls of his bulky firefighter uniform.

"You okay?" Alfred asked him, glancing down at him worriedly.

Arthur took a deep breath, wondering the same thing. He nodded. "Fine."

"Then let's get a move on. We got a long ways to go…"

Alfred made it out of the room and alerted his captain he had a survivor. While he had been busy with Arthur, the rest of his team had found others just in desperate need of rescuing. Once they were all back together, they began their decent to the ground.

They moved quickly down the floors, but not as quick as they had come up, loaded with the extra weight of injured civilians.

Arthur was the only person actually being _carried_ down all the floors. Alfred was young and undeniably strong but even he had his limits. More than a few times he had to stop to rest, and for every labored breath the fireman gasped in and out, Arthur felt guiltier and guiltier for putting him through it. He didn't know what to say.

Still, Alfred didn't seem to mind, and he would even make an effort to keep Arthur talking, asking how he was fairing and reassuring him with comforting words that everything was going to be alright.

"What…what happened?" Arthur finally dared to ask in a small voice, just as their entourage was passing the thirty-forth floor. He wasn't sure he really wanted to know, because whatever had caused _that _much devastation had to be _beyond_ serious. He felt Alfred tense up. The firefighter was quiet for a moment before he finally responded.

"…It was... an airplane. Two…two… _airplanes_ crashed into the towers." Alfred's voice choked as he revealed the mystery and Arthur was left speechless.

He had been prepared for the worse; gas leaks or bombs… _anything_ except for _airplanes_. He tried to wrap his head around it, never imagining that when he went into work that morning he would have narrowly missed getting hit by plane. It didn't make any sense why a _plane _would be inside the _building_. All the destruction, smoke, and heat suddenly seemed surreal, caused by of all things, an aircraft.

"But…how?" he nearly whispered, unable to grasp the truth.

Alfred's gaze hardened, his blue eyes turning into ice. "This was no accident."

Arthur felt chills run down his back, like cold metal pressed against his spinal column. _Not an accident_. All those people dead, Francis and Antonio _dead,_ and it had been on _purpose…_

The two of them were quiet for a while, left to their own dark thoughts as they continued to eat up the floors to ground level. As they started to reach the lower levels, the emergency stairwell started to get jammed with people trying to get out. Arthur felt an immature bout of claustrophobia seizing him up. His body went rigid. He was thinking of walls closing in on them when he felt Alfred's hold on him tighten around him; it relaxed him a little as they carefully maneuvered down the steps.

Luckily, the people in the stairwell parted faster than startled fish when they saw Alfred's squadron coming down, in their bright suits, carrying injured people. He could feel their curious eyes on him, roaming over his body and locking onto the bloody wound he was showcasing.

It wasn't so easy though, with the amount of people, for Alfred to move. Quite a few times, Arthur's leg was bumped or jostled, causing a gasp, a curse, or a whimper to slide from his lips. And on top of that, he still hadn't stopped trembling. He thought he heard Alfred say something about being in shock, but he couldn't remember; things were starting to get foggy in his mind, and all he wanted to do was sleep…

But Alfred was right there, holding onto him and muttering soft words of comfort in his ear. It wasn't the words that made Arthur calm, but the deep, collected rhythm of sounds emitted from the firefighter's mouth.

"How are you feeling, Arthur?" Alfred asked, checking on him. They had just passed the seventh floor.

"M'fine." Arthur mumbled, not feeling very fine at all. In fact, he felt like throwing up again, but of all things, he didn't want to gross Alfred out.

"Alright, we're almost there. Just keep taking deep, steady breaths…" Arthur tried his best to follow the fireman's directions. He was finding it hard to do anything but take short, shuddering breaths instead.

"I won't let go of you until you are in good hands." Alfred promised. They were getting closer now, on the fourth floor. They were almost out, on solid ground, and Arthur felt unbelievable gratitude towards this firefighter.

"Thank you…" he whispered, too weary to be any louder. "Thank you for coming back…" he wasn't even sure if Alfred could hear him over all the voices of the panicked people around them.

But apparently he did. Alfred looked down at him. He was silent as he continued down the steps and after a while, he finally spoke up, but it was quiet and reserved. "I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I had left you in there, Arthur."

Arthur felt this was the kind of thing firefighters said to people all the time, but for some reason, it felt deeper, more personal when Alfred said it. Maybe he was delusional; lost too much blood and was hearing things, but he could have mistaken pure fondness in the fireman's voice.

They finally reached ground level, and it came as a surprise when they finally broke free of the congested stairwell and into the lobby; Arthur hadn't expected to escape his burning office, let alone seventy-six stories down.

The reception area was disastrous, but covered with tons of emergency crews directing the chaos. The glass windows were blown out and the remains were crunching under the feet of all the evacuees. From what Arthur could see, outside the ground was littered with rubble and large pieces of the building, some the size of cars. Thousands of documents and office papers were fluttering around like confetti. If could have been a parade if not for all the chaos and tears and cries for loved ones…

Alfred and his squad followed the crowed being directed out of the building, where hundreds of police officers and firefighters and EMTs were running about. He weaved through the chaos, and brought him to a bright red tent that had been swiftly rigged up, labeled "Trauma Unit".

They were met by a female doctor, whose clothes were already covered in other patient's blood. Her hair was falling out of its bun and she looked beyond stressed.

"He needs help," Alfred said explained calmly. Arthur supposed it was because he did this sort of thing all the time.

The doctor took a quick account of him, eyes roaming over his wound. After a moment, she nodded and gestured to the right. "Take him over there!"

She was already gone, busy helping a newly arrived victim whose body was mostly covered in sickeningly red burns.

Alfred carried Arthur to where the doctor had pointed, where rows upon rows of gurneys and cots had been assembled, already filled with bleeding, badly injured patients; some were crying hysterically, or moaning in pain. It was a scene of complete anguish and turmoil. However, these people were injured, but not dying, and Arthur felt immensely relived he had not been assigned to the other side of the tent, which was labeled "critical" and had people who were much worse off. Surprisingly, Alfred found a vacant gurney and set him down on it gently, as if handling porcelain. Arthur reluctantly released his hold on Alfred, and the two of them stared blankly at each other. Finally Alfred cleared his throat and leaned away.

"Okay Arthur, I guess this is where I leave you." He said. He shifted, straightening his jacket. He then looked at Arthur seriously. "You're safe now, and they'll take good care of you, okay? You're going to be just fine, I promise."

When Arthur didn't say anything—for he couldn't even begin to formulate coherent thoughts when staring so deeply into those indigo irises—he gently placed his hand on Arthur's thigh, right above the tattered, makeshift tourniquet. He gave it a small, tender squeeze and an even tenderer smile.

"I've got to go back now, so this is goodbye."

He turned to leave. Arthur felt indescribable fear rush through his veins. He reached out and grabbed the back of Alfred's jacket.

"Wait! Alfred!" he said desperately. "Don't go back in there!"

Alfred turned to look at him, confused.

"Please! Don't go back in there! It's too dangerous!" He looked up at the burning towers, the plumes of smoke lacerating against the would-be-beautiful sky. Alfred followed his gaze upward to the scene of horror. He looked back at Arthur, expression torn.

"I have to. It's my job."

"No! Please listen to me—the building, it's going to fall. I just know it! Please don't go back in!" He was talking like a crazy man, rambling again. He knew he sounded fanatical and paranoid. After all, the two towers were powerful, strong, and sturdy. They were built to withstand the worse and they have done so in the past. But he just had this gut-wrenching feeling that the _worst_ was yet to come. They had been struck, but the real blow hadn't been dealt yet…

"Arthur, there are hundreds of people still trapped in there, just like you were. I can't just leave them!" Alfred explained, stunned by his proposal. Arthur shook his head, trying to get through to the firefighter, the one who had saved him.

"But you could die! Just _please_ don't go back Alfred! _Please! They are going to fall!"_

Alfred closed his eyes. He looked battle worn and weary—such a shame for someone so young. When he opened his eyes again, Arthur saw real fear behind them. He was scared. Hell, who wasn't after what had occurred? But oh, Alfred was so strong and noble.

"I can't just leave those people. They need help—they need a hero." He replied softly.

Arthur released his grip on Alfred's jacket, and moved to hold his hand. Alfred didn't pull away. He squeezed back lightly instead. He was looking up at the burning buildings again.

"Alfred." Arthur said quietly. "If you truly wish to be a hero…then save yourself. People are going to _need_ you, even after today. Come tomorrow, we are all going to need people like you to help pick us back up." Arthur stared at him levelly, hoping to convey his message properly. "You could do so much good in this world, save _hundreds_ of more lives, if you just _live_."

Alfred was quiet. Arthur knew what he was asking went against everything Alfred stood for, he could tell by the fortitude in his eyes. Alfred was scared, but he wasn't a coward. If people were stuck in there, and of course there were, then he'd be damned to not help.

"I'm sorry, Arthur." He whispered. "But I have to go back in."

And he was gone, rushing back into the mayhem, back into the condemned tower.

Arthur was left on the gurney, hand outstretched where he had been previously holding Alfred's. The world was rushing around him, blurred and muted. Faceless people coming and going chaotically. Not long after, the South Tower came crashing to the Earth, followed devastatingly by the North. The entire city cried out in shock and agony, and Arthur wept for his firefighter, the one that had risked his life to climb up and save him.

* * *

**A/N: Ok…Where to start?**

**First off, don't worry your little hearts! There will be another chapter! **

**Secondly, I'm sure I got a lot of stuff wrong regarding emergency protocol, so now that I'm admitting it, don't bite my head off please! **

**Regarding Arthur's terrible knee injury:** **I really don't know what it's like to have my knee impaled. I can't imagine it felt like daisies and sunshine though...poor guy.**

**So, I have this huge LIFE Magazine edition that covers 9/11…it's remarkable. I don't know why I'm obsessed with this, but all I ever do online, other than read fanfiction, is read stories and articles about 9/11. So, combine those two and of course **_**this**_** is the result. (I've also read pretty much everybody's 9/11 fics on here…sorry I didn't comment, but I swear I probably liked it!) **

**I put Arthur in the South Tower, which was impacted slightly lower than the North Tower. The plane crashed into floors 78-87. I put Arthur a couple of floors beneath the crash site, assuming the floors would still be devastated beyond belief. Obviously, I wasn't in there at the time, so I have no idea what it was really like inside the building (except for what my copy of LIFE magazine tells me…)**

**Honestly, I'd be a little pissed if someone told me to save myself instead of trying to save others. But at the same time, Arthur also had a good point: you could either die trying to save people, or you could use some self-preservation and save yourself so you can continue to save lives yet another day. Catch-22? I don't even know. **

**I think I'll leave it there for now and go work on chapter TWO!**

**-foofmeister. **


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